


why won't somebody come and save me from this, make it end?

by Splat_Dragon



Series: Tumblr Fills [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Amputation, Body Horror, Branding, Character Death, Grimdark, I will make that a tag, Non-Canonical Canonical Character Death, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Skinning, Starvation, Tanning, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27881426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Request:Hi again!!! Could I request another Micah fic- but with EXTREME body horror? Maybe something with his face, where’s he’s kept alive and tortured? If you could do some branding and amputation (any amount of limbs- get crazy heehee) along with the other body horror and mutilation- that would be incredible!!! Tysm!!! 💖💕💖💕💖
Series: Tumblr Fills [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1282682
Kudos: 10





	why won't somebody come and save me from this, make it end?

“You know, Mr. Bell, my opinion on _traitors.”_

and if the devil wore a man’s skin, the devil stood before him. Micah had never feared Van Der Linde - rather the opposite, in fact. Had thought him a soft fool, long fallen from his days as _Dutch Van Der Linde, Outlaw King,_ but as he took in the feral smile and the hard glint of his beetle’s shell eyes, he knew that this was the face countless lawmen had seen just before their deaths.

“Dutch,” he tried a final time, “I ain’t no traitor,”

but the man only inclined his head in acquiescence, “I know, Mr. Bell. You’re a _survivor.”_

Micah’s eyes widened, looking from gang member to gang member, but none of them had so much as a hint of pity, of sympathy in their eyes. Even the _O’Driscoll’s_ eyes were dark with, if not hate, severe dislike - and Bell’s chest _burned_ with rage, the man was a snake himself!

Van Der Linde clapped once, and their heads snapped to him as dogs to their master, “Mr. Morgan, Mr. Smith, Mr. Williamson, Mr. Matthews, if you would make sure our friend can’t make a run for it?”

Our friend.

_Our friend._

He knew what _‘our friend’_ meant, and it was nothing good. Ice dripped down his spine and, at the nasty grin on Morgan’s face, at the dawning realization on Smith’s and Williamson’s faces when they looked from Morgan to Matthews, he felt his heart drop into the floor.

“The rest of you, please go back to work! It’s crowded down here, and they’ll need space to work.” There were calls of discontent, and rather loud grumblings, but everyone cleared out, Van Der Linde waiting until they were all gone before clapping Matthews on the shoulder and following suit.

  
  


“Come on,” he tried for calm, for collected, didn’t think he pulled it off quite as well as he meant to, “you don’t really think I’d rat on you, do you?” but no one said anything, ignored him as Williamson lit the fire, throwing firewood in, while Smith relaxed against the wall with Matthews, the latter whispering something to Morgan before doing so, the younger man clambering up the stairs, “Where’s he going?”

No one replied - he might as well have been furniture for how much attention was paid to him.

  
  


Morgan came clattering down, the flames in the fireplace roaring so hot they were sweating, something gleaming bright in his hand, passed off to Williamson and shoved into the flames so quickly he couldn’t get a good look at it, “What is that?” and his voice was much higher than he’d intended it to be.

Again, he was ignored, Matthews instead addressing the three, “Make sure he’s well tied down ‘cept his right leg, I want to make sure you don’t get hit.”

He fought, thrashed against his bindings, but he was already well tied and they carefully redid the ropes until they dug into his skin, he could feel his hair being torn out with each twitch and growled angrily, lashing out with his free leg. A whack to the back of his head stunned him,and he slumped, barely aware of his pants being torn off, cut where they were stopped by his bindings, and thrown off into the corner.

  
  


Matthews began to tap just below his knee, his voice distorted as he tried to gather his senses about him, drawing a line just under his kneecap, and Williamson nodded solemnly, though his face was anything but.

Morgan dumped alcohol on his leg and he jolted, “What the hell?” and if grins could kill half of New Hanover would’ve dropped over dead.

“Mr. Morgan, Mr. Smith, please keep him still.”

“Yes Hosea!” they knelt, dragging his leg out and wrapping their arms around his lower leg, holding it so still that, though he tried to kick, he couldn’t even manage to twitch his foot, barely even managed to wriggle his toes. 

“What the hell?!” he barked, but again was ignored, a scraping noise catching his attention and he turned to see Williamson drawing something white-hot from the fire, “What is that?” then as he neared he realized, _oh god that’s a bone-saw what are they doing?_

“Careful, Bill,”

“I know I know,” he grumbled, aligning the bone-saw just below his knee and Micah howled, jolting back or, at least, tried to, was well bound and Morgan and Smith had a good grip on his leg, already _burning_ though he wasn’t yet touched and then—

_Tearing._

_Ripping._

He couldn’t even scream.

_Sawing._

His mouth gaped soundlessly, and he tried to double over, tried to lash out, but Smith and Morgan tightened their grips, held his leg straight out, and Williamson continued to saw steadfastly, sawing through skin and fat and muscle, cussing and carefully adjusting his cut when he scraped bone, turning up their noses at the scent of burning flesh.

_StopstopstopstopstopitHURTS_

The saw severed the last of the clinging skin and his lower leg dropped, would have hit the floor if it weren’t for Smith and Morgan’s hands gripping near his ankle, grimacing as they held the severed limb. “Take it upstairs Arthur,” and Smith was happy to let Morgan take the limb upstairs, stepping back to stand near the fire, as far from Micah as possible. “Is he bleeding, Bill?”

Bill turned back from where he’d been shoving the bone-saw into the fire, giving Micah’s stump a cursory glance, “Naw, it burned it shut nicely.”

Micah whimpered pitifully, mouth opening and closing - _whywhywhy_ they’d crippled him they’d ruined him they’d destroyed him he was _ruined_

His ears rang, their words swam through his head like so much water, and then they were going upstairs and _why were they going upstairs why were they leaving him alone nonono don’t leave me alone!_

  
  


An hour passed.

Two.

At least by his estimate, but he hadn’t a watch or a clock or a window or, even, a sundial. 

Then three.

And still, he was left alone.

The silence rattled in his bones, each thud of his heart as loud as the crack of a gunshot. His leg hurt, _God,_ it hurt, but it wasn't a leg anymore was it it was a _stump_

If he opened his mouth he was going to scream, and scream, and scream.

  
  


He needed to run.

They'd left him to starve, surely. To suffer to death.

But he was not going to just sit there and starve. He began to twist his wrists, to work at the rope, bit his tongue against the pain as the rope shredded his skin, blood dripping down his arms until, finally! the knot on one came free and he tore at the other, growling as he flayed the skin of his fingers, surging and hurrying to free his ankle.

Looked at his stump, felt the world wobble around him, tore his eyes away - he could freak out later, or never, preferably never - and staggered to his feet-foot, lurching and grabbing the wall as a crutch.

Micah took a deep breath, leaned on the wall, and took a step.

Hop.

Step.

Hop.

Step.

When he got out, he was going to kill them. Stand tall and proud and grin as he watched them hang.

Hop.

Step.

Hop.

Put a bullet through Williamson himself, Milton wouldn't mind much.

Step.

Hop.

So long as they ended up dead, Milton would be happy.

  
  


At the stairs, he hesitated. Snarled, and lowered himself, a scream bitten off as he held his stump off the ground and began to crawl up, eyes on the cellar door.

So close.

It hurt.

So close.

It _hurt._

  
  


He crouched as best he could when he couldn’t go any higher without hitting his head on the cellar door, straining his hearing and praying there was no one waiting. If they found him… if they found him trying to escape, who knew what they would do?

Micah’d underestimated them once, and he didn’t intend to do so again.

  
  


There was silence and so he pushed it up, just slightly, and peered out. Only trees, and brush, and nothing else that he could make out, no voices or even horses, so he dared to open it and crawl out, biting his tongue until it bled when he had to put weight on his stump as he stood as best he could, grabbing a nearby tree and—

—then he was off. Hobbling, grabbing anything he could use as a crutch. Tree by tree

Hop

Step

Hop

Step

Tree

Tree

Tree

And then he fell, and let himself lie, feeling awful sorry for himself. _Agony_ throbbed through his leg, and it took all he had not to whine and whimper and cry out, and then he forced himself to stand and keep going, the further away he was when they found him gone the better and—

“There he is!”

His eyes went wide, _'Nonono!'_ and he began to hop - hopstephopstep - as fast as he could, but then Morgan was on him and the barrel of a gun was slamming into his head and _pain!_

  
  


and he was waking up back in the cellar, bound so tight he could hardly breathe.

_‘No! Nononono!’_

He wasn’t alone for long. The cellar door creaked open, and his heart began to race, to leap and to bound so quickly he feared it might stop altogether, and then, impossibly, it raced faster when he saw Matthews and Smith and Williamson and Morgan coming down the stairs, faces serious as a heart attack.

_‘No, no, no!’_

“That was real dumb Micah,” Morgan smirked, a slow, cruel thing that crawled across his face and bared his teeth, and Matthews patted his arm,

“Don’t be mean, Arthur,” before directing Williamson to start the fire and _oh god_ what were they going to do?

Micah yelled, muffled by his gag, and slammed his foot into the ground, bound only by ropes around his arms, and Morgan looked to Matthews, raised an eyebrow, and the old man nodded, and then they were descending on him and he couldn’t even scream as they broke his leg, grabbing it and bringing his thigh down so hard over Morgan’s that the bone broke in half like a twig, Smith slamming his fist into his face, Morgan’s fists into his stomach and he felt something break, his nose shattered, then another rib, fuck he couldn’t _breathe—_

“Enough boys, we want him alive.”

They fell off, knuckles split and bloodied, eyes never leaving him as they stepped back to stand on either side of Matthews. Micah slumped over, gasping as best he could around the gag, testing metal, struggling not to drown in the blood from his broken nose, his head throbbing both from Smith’s punch and from the blow of Morgan’s gun, his ribs _screaming,_ waves crashing in his ears as they talked, words nonsensical to him, moving around and doing… well, he wasn’t sure what.

And then _pain._

Morgan and Smith were grabbing his snapped leg and pulling it straight out and he shrieked, writhing, tears dripping down his face and _god_ he didn’t cry, he never cried, bile was rising in his throat and he struggled to swallow it down if he vomited he was going to choke to death, but would that really be so bad?

Williamson approached, then, and though his vision was hazy he could make out the glowing of _something_ in his hands and something snapped, _nonononono_ oh god not again, he screamed and thrashed but they held his leg perfectly still, he couldn’t hear he couldn’t see oh god not again but there was nothing he could do as Williamson brought the blade down and began to saw just below his knee, mouth moving in a way that looked almost like he was whistling, and _painpainpain_ he went limp, swallowing convulsively to keep from vomiting and choking and dying but almost wanted to because _makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop_ but he refused to give them the satisfaction and then they were pulling his lower leg away and carrying it upstairs, leaving him to slump down in the chair and stare at the cauterized stumps that remained of his legs.

_‘Oh my god.’_

He was never going to run again.

He was never going to ride a horse again.

He was never going to fucking _walk_ again.

They’d ruined him.

They’d made him useless.

_‘Uselessuselessuseless.’_

  
  


PAIN.

He arched with a scream, jerked and tried to reach up, to grab the brand that was crawling across his upper shoulders in some sort of pattern and _oh god it hurts make it STOP_ but the bindings stopped them abruptly, tore at his skin, shredded it until blood splattered to the ground and he sobbed, slumping over with a pitiful moan _‘letmedieletmedieletmedie’_ and Williamson finished branding in 

**_DER LINDE_ **

looking to Matthews for approval, the man nodding and turning, saying something to the three Micah didn’t catch, his heart thudding too loud in his ears _‘killmekillmeKILLME’_ and they vanished up the stairs and then he was blacking out—

  
  


How long he was out, he didn’t know. Long enough that the pain had dulled some, and that his wrists stopped bleeding.

He kept his eyes closed, listened out. There was no breathing other than his, no muttering voices or even the crackle of the fireplace. So he dared to open them, found himself alone again, the fire down to ash, the cellar beginning to grow cold and he found himself shivering, it must have been the middle of the night he was sure, he was going to lose his fingers and his toes to the cold but _oh god_ he’d already lost his toes hadn’t he? His toes and his feet and his lower legs oh god oh god _oh god_ don’t focus on that now Micah he needed to get _out._

So, again, he began to saw at the ropes, vision going white as the rope dug into his flesh, as he worked to undo it, to loosen the rope until it would come undone. How long it took, he couldn’t say, long enough that it began to grow warmer, that he began to grow dizzy from the blood that bubbled from around the rope, that poured to the ground and pooled around his feet, but finally one of the ropes came loose enough that, with a jerk up, he was able to send it tumbling to the ground, reaching over and clawing at the other with numb, cold fingers until it came undone and joined the other, lurching forward and collapsing to the floor with a muffled scream of agony.

Oh god, his ribs.

Oh god, his face.

Oh god, his _stumps._

Make it _stop._

Micah blacked out.

  
  


He didn’t know how long he was out, but he woke up shivering, shaking and shuddering, his face tacky with tears. The pain had dulled to a weak throbbing, and _‘Fuck make it_ stop _please god’_ how long had he been unconscious what if they were coming? Fuck if they found him free of his bindings he didn’t want to know what they’d do, he didn’t have any more legs for them to cut off _oh god his legs_ he retched and turned his head and emptied his stomach on the ground, nothing more than bile how long had it been since he’d eaten?

God, he needed to _move._ So he began to drag himself forward, digging his fingers into the dirt, groaning through clenched teeth as the shredded skin on the end of his fingers was torn back open on the rough ground, each pull taking more of his strength than he thought he had, he had to reach down and seek it, his shoulders _screamed_ and he groaned pitifully as the dirt tore at his bared stomach, as more and more of the skin on his fingertips was shredded and ripped away.

And then he was at the bottom of the stairs, and he thought dying might be worth it. Because hauling himself up the stairs was going to be _agony,_ was going to take more energy, more strength, than he thought he had, but he’d already gotten this far and he was a _survivor,_ dammit! so he reached up and grabbed the highest step he could reach, biting his tongue against a scream as the uneven steps gouged his stomach, collapsing when he could go no further and curling on himself, having cut his stumps, slamming a fist against the steps before making himself continue.

Up, and up, and up. It could have been hours, or it could have been minutes, though it felt like the former. He left streaks of blood behind him, didn’t dare to look though he knew it must look like a murder scene, a carcass being dragged, could feel himself growing horribly woozy.

Micah slumped when his head brushed against the door of the cellar, gasping and taking a moment to catch his breath and—

—naturally, the cellar door flew up and open, and he had a moment to see a look of almost comical surprise on Morgan, Smith, and Matthews’ faces, before Morgan’s foot swung back and flicked forward, and his face exploded with pain (there went his nose again) and his head snapped back, his torso lifted off the ground, then his hips and stumps followed, and he was tumbling down the stairs with a howl of pain, vision going white as he struck the last stair skull first, laying still as he struggled to gather his wits about him, able only to moan weakly as Smith and Morgan gripped his arms and dragged him to the chair, throwing him into it and binding his torso below his armpits and at his hips, then stretching his arms out on the armrests and binding his wrists tightly.

  
  


He couldn’t make out what they were saying - his mind was still buzzing, the world spinning around him. He couldn’t think, couldn’t hear, couldn’t see. Could only just feel as Morgan swung his foot and slammed it into one of his stumps, couldn’t even react other than to blink dully - a concussion, surely?

His shooting arm was pulled out straight, and Morgan shook his head, “Shouldn’t’a done that Micah,” as Williamson began to saw through his arm just passed his elbow, Micah trying to focus on anything else _(I’llneverbeabletoshootagainI’muselessI’muselessI’museless)_ and realizing that Matthews was nowhere to be seen as his forearm and hand hit the ground, taken upstairs by Morgan who, after the pair had cleaned up and wrapped the cauterized wound, was followed by Williamson and Smith.

  
  


He waited as long as he dared - other members of the gang visited him, mauled him. Took out their frustrations on him, fed him only as much as he needed. By Morgan’s fourth visit he was determined to escape and, so, he counted out a thousand seven times before working himself free.

He dragged himself two paces, sun shone into the cellar, and he went limp as Smith sighed, tromping down the stairs and digging his fingers into his hair, dragging him by it into the chair, deaf to his hollering and shouting of pain - his stumps and other wounds had long gone numb - flinging him into it and binding him loosely before vanishing up the stairs.

It didn’t surprise Micah when they stretched out his final arm, bound him tightly, and sawed it off.

  
  


Slowly, they stopped coming.

MacGuire was the first. Grew bored with prodding at his wounds, tugging to worsen them and prevent their healing, of cracking jokes about how his teeth were 'worse than mine now, huh?’

Then Escuella, the man losing the perverse pleasure he seemed to take in dragging his knife along his skin, drawing the faintest of lines into him before, seemingly without prompting, digging it into him until he screamed, then pulling it out and doodling again. He’d grown bored with it, towards the end, losing the vigor with which he’d done it before no longer showing up at all.

The ladies had lasted the longest. Would come down and take out their frustrations, beat on him with a club or their fists and shout and holler and scream as though he were a tree, nonsense he had no interest in but was forced to bear, forced to listen about how _‘Bill is_ such _a pig!’ whack!_ how _‘John needs to act like a goddamn father!’ crunch!_ about how _‘You men can do some of your own damn laundry!’_ (Jackson had broken his nose, then)

And then no one had showed up to feed him one feeding.

Then two.

Then three, and he’d realized he was _fucked._

He’d nearly broken his neck trying to twist so he could get to the rope around his neck, had shredded his gums 'til he choked on the blood trying to chew through his gag, but finally all he could do was slump against it, shouting and pleading against the rag in his mouth, but no one ever came.

  
  


“Sir,” Milton woke up, some weeks later, to a young Pinkerton agent knocking on his door, so pale he nearly offered him a chair for fear of him collapsing, “I think you need to see this.”

He led him out the door, swaying on his feet as he kept a large distance from a massive box which, even from where Milton stood, he could make out his name scrawled on it. The man drew his gun, approaching warily, and jumped back after opening in some parts alarm and wariness—

a tanned hide of a sort he’d never seen before sat inside, folded on itself as it hadn’t enough room to be fully stretched out, **RAT** branded meticulously atop the torso. A collection of limbs - half-limbs, a foot there, a half a leg there, half an arm here, a handless arm there - was piled beneath it and, to his horror, a tanned head was stitched to the hide, face twisted in agony, something rolled and sticking out of the mouth, a familiar white hat sat atop straw-like blond hair.

He neared, fighting down bile, aiming his gun at the ratsnake that had been coiled around his hat before realizing it long dead, carefully tugging the papers - no, photographs? - out of the man’s mouth and nearly taking the head with it, straining the stitching—

_Him, handing over a clip of money to Bell_

_Van Der Linde’s bounty poster, next to Bell’s coat_

_His wife, brushing her horse_

_Edgar’s family, sitting at the riverside_

Milton roared, grabbing the hide’s head and chucking it as far as it would go, the hide unfolding and flying along like some macabre kite, half-rotted limbs scattering every which way.


End file.
